


Blood of the Lilies

by ChibiStarr



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Character Study, F/M, Flashbacks, Geralt and Roche are friends, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, More tags to come later, Roche's Path, Temeria (The Witcher), War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26118229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiStarr/pseuds/ChibiStarr
Summary: "We were to stop the Black Ones' advance along the Dol Blathanna - Mount Carbon line. And we did. For three days. Then they smashed us into splinters."Roche and Ves are two of the survivors. Scattered and flung into a Temeria rocked by war, both from outside and within, they have only each other.
Relationships: Vernon Roche/Ves
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my own Ves.

Somewhere, he thought he could still hear the battle raging, though he was certain that they were quite in the middle of nowhere. The forest around them was black as pitch, and even the moon and stars were bloated out by the crossing branches overhead. And more importantly, the battle had ended, when the Nilfgaardian cavalry had appeared unexpectedly from their right and had pushed their flank, while the artillery pounded the center mercilessly.

It had been admirable that the Temerians had even held them off for one day, let alone three, and Roche was deeply proud that his countrymen had done so, despite the loss.

They had scattered in all directions from pursuit, and he and Ves had been no different, sticking only with each other as they had fled in disarray with the rest of the army that they could find. But pursuit and chase had pushed and pushed them, until—

He breathed, and his chest exploded with pain as if a hot poker had just been drilled into him.

Roche was certain he did not make any noise. And yet as soon as he felt it, there were wonderfully cool hands on his face, touching him gently. A voice spoke to him, but he could not understand the words over the sound of battle.

Battle? No, no it could not be. It was—blood, yes, he understood now. The pounding of his own pulse inside of his head, his own dizziness and memories layered across his senses, leaving him confused as to what was real and what was not. But even then, his logic remained: they had fled. So unless something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, there should be no sounds of armies doing battle around.

His chest and lungs still burned, and even more so when something—touched inside of him. That brought a grunt from him, a drawn one, but then memory came back to him again.

Yes, he remembered that now. A lucky arrow from the enemy, finding its mark in his side just as the trees closed in around them. It had landed right on his lower ribs—where it still remained. There had been no time to pull it out while the Nilfgaardians were still trying to run them down.

“I’m so sorry Roche!” Ves’s voice came back to him as if cotton had suddenly been pulled from his ears. “I know it hurts, but it has to come out.”

If he had not been so busy trying to master his pain and ride it, he might have snorted at her. But presently sarcasm was nowhere in his ability, breathing and speaking alone were both an effort. “Just—” he panted a little, “—just get the damn thing out. I’ll be fine.” Sweat dripped down his brow from the effort of speaking.

A cold cloth was draped over his head, which was a blessing no greater than if it was from Melitele herself, and then he frowned and turned his head. There was a small fire, with a small pot next to it. When had a fire been started? Had they made some sort of camp? He realized with a small jolt of alarm that he remembered none of it. Just the running in the black forest with his side on fire, running and running until he was forced to lean on Ves for support, and then even that had faded into gray nothing.

Ves’s face came into view. There was dried blood in her hair, and on her uniform, and he frowned a little. Was she hurt? He tried to reach for her and see, but his arm felt clumsy and heavy, not responding the way he wanted it to. She gripped his hand in hers, tightly, and he held back as tightly as he could.

Her eyes were large and worried, and she peered at him intently. Then abruptly she looked away, down, and then took her hand out of his to reach for something that glittered in the firelight. “I-I’ll have to cut it out,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Do it, then,” he replied immediately, taking another scorching breath. Gods damn it all, it had gone right through his uniform, through the padded wool of his surcoat, even through his chain mail, and it was his pure luck that it did not pierce his lung. Perhaps everything else had slowed the arrow’s impact enough that—

_Pain_. Hot, driving pain that was splitting his skin and destroying every other thought, feeling, or sensation in his head. Automatically he groaned, his hands clenching, and then he was silent. Discipline, order, that was all that mattered, everything important. For Temeria he had to be silent. So the Black Ones would not find them.

He remembered the lilies in the field of blue. He remembered Vizima. He remembered Ves—her eyes were the blue field where the Temerian lilies grew.

He fought tooth and nail with the pain, and allowed himself to think of nothing else _but_ the pain—if he was distracted, then the pain would come again and take him by surprise, and he might not be able to stop himself then. Still, when there was a peak of sudden, blazing agony it was enough to shake him to his core and there was a rush—he did not know whether it was his pulse inside of his head or his own voice—but it chased him into blackness again.

When awareness came back to him, it was through touch rather than sight or sound. He saw nothing and heard only fire, but the sensation of lips against his own brought him back faster than either sight or sound could have achieved.

There were hands touching his face with a gentleness he would have recognized anywhere.

He kissed Ves back, again trying to hold her, but his hand moved with that same sluggishness that, to his eternal frustration, all of his mental strength could not force to move faster. Still he found her hip and waist, clumsily, almost, and stroked there, trying to seem as comforting as possible. He barely even cared where he was touching, he just needed to touch _her_.

“Roche,” she was whispering, and his eyes fluttered open to see her leaning over him, their faces inches apart. Her eyes looked red, but he did not know if it was from exhaustion or tears. “Roche, how are you feeling?”

He took a breath, expecting pain. It did come, but it was none of the burning agony that the arrow had brought. It was sharp and short, but much more like a deep ache that was at least manageable. “I’ll be fine,” he assured her, but the words were difficult to form. His mouth felt dry and thick.

As if sensing his desire before he could say a word, she reached for a waterskin, though to his embarrassment she had to help him sit up a little before he could drink. It was warm, but he did not care, it felt as if it had been years since he had last sipped anything. He allowed himself a few mouthfuls before he remembered that this was the only water than they had, and they needed to conserve it while the Black Ones still hunted for Temerian survivors. He capped it and placed it down.

He was leaning against Ves, and her worried hands darted over him, unsure of where to rest. On his back, his other side, his arms, his—hair?

It shouldn’t have surprised him that his chaperon was missing, but it did. A quick search of his eyes showed him that it was not far, a rumpled black mass that he would have to properly sort out later.

He gratefully leaned into Ves, and worked one of his hands into her own. She gripped it tightly, thankfully, and the beginnings of a smile worked its way onto his face. It felt strange. “Are you alright?” he asked, taking light breaths in order to speak. “You are not hurt?”

He felt her stiffen. “You’re the one who was shot with an arrow and passed out while I cut it out, and you’re asking me if _I’m_ alright?” she breathed incredulously.

“I notice you not answering my question.”

“Bloody hell, Roche, of course I’m alright! You’re the injured one here!”

“Good,” he said, relief washing over him. “I’m glad you’re fine.” He stroked her hand, unwilling to let it go. “That’s one good thing out of this.”

She was silent, but he could sense her emotions in the gentleness that she held his hand and stroked it in both of hers, and the little huff that left her lips. “You’re insane,” she whispered. But a grateful sound of deep relief. _I’m glad you’re alright._

He pressed against her for a moment. _Of course I am._ “How long was I out? How bad was it?”

“Only ‘bout a quarter hour, and not very serious, thank the gods. It was in your skin but it didn’t get past the ribs. I-I think one of them might be cracked or broken, I couldn’t tell very well—it’s dark—”

That would explain why it hurt every time he breathed. Not the normal hurt of a surface wound, it was that far too sharp pain inside that spoke of a deeper problem. With how quickly they had to move to stay ahead of the Nilfgaardians, that could present a problem.

They would manage, though. If he had to crawl on hands and knees to stay ahead of the invaders, it was no question at all.

“You did well,” he said, gentle but firmly interrupting her worried babbling and silencing her. “I’m proud of you.”

His breaths were becoming irregular, the pain forcing his rhythm out of balance, and with an effort he paused before forcing them in and out, counting the seconds carefully. His head was swimming, the world tilting a little, and then he was _really_ tilting, and he jerked a little before he understood that it was merely Ves lowering him again.

“Lie down,” she said, trying make her voice sound commanding and failing spectacularly. “You’re still injured, you’ll pass out again if you don’t give yourself some rest.”

“Mmm,” he muttered, feeling for the wound, and noticed only with a start then that much of his uniform had been stripped off. Only his undershirt remained. “Did you bandage the wound?” he asked, his voice sounding odd to his own ears.

“What?” Ves said. “For fuck’s sake Roche, of course I bandaged your bloody wound! You think I’d just leave it open?!”

His mind always tried to stay on top of things. Make sure everything was done, was taken care of. He couldn’t help it, it was pure habit, it allowed him to keep functioning when there was nothing else left for him. “Did you make sure it was clean? No fabric or armor stuck in the wound? They can cause infection.”

“ _Yes_ , commander, I did.” There was an irritated huff to her tone, but it was more relaxed than it had been a moment ago. Roche not pestering and making sure everything was in order meant that something was terribly wrong. “Do you want tea? We have some rations still, we can eat now and move later before daybreak.”

“Yes,” he said, or at least think he said so. It was hard to say, as the black sleep of unconsciousness claimed him again swiftly after.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this delves a little deeper into references of Witcher 2, I'll mention that this story takes place with the setting of Geralt choosing Roche's path and with both of them becoming close friends.
> 
> I've also taken liberties of my own about Roche's past, and the history of the Blue Stripes, which will be obvious in the beginning and end of this chapter.

He was atop one of the many dormer windows of the Royal Palace, staring out into the night, watching the flickering lights of the Vizima spread out beneath him, and even further than that watching Lake Vizima shimmering in the moonlight like a sheet of silver. Sounds of particularly loud music and laughter would drift up to his ears whenever the wind turned, and even occasionally the smell of food being roasted over open spits in the streets. 

Before…so shortly ago it could not even be considered a distant memory, he would have been lurking in the corners of alleys, starving and staring at the merchants with hungry, resentful eyes and thinking of a hundred different ways to try and snatch a piece without receiving a blow to the head from the butcher. And now he was sitting on the roof of the Royal Palace itself, nursing a goblet of Toussaint Red in his hands, spending his very first Velen stuffed with more food and drink than he had ever seen in one place in his entire life. 

It still felt strange. The change. How differently a Blue Stripes uniform fit over him than his usual street clothes, or his plain infantry uniform, or even his richer garb of being an aide of the king, and yet this one felt like it belonged on him. It shrouded him like a well-worn cloak, and kept the chill wind of autumn off of him. 

He looked down at the goblet he cupped in both hands. The red wine inside seemed black in the night. More expensive than a week’s worth of savings back in the slums. 

He took a sip. It tasted of change. Of new chances. The night wind had pleasantly cooled it, but it left a trail of warmth inside of him when he swallowed. 

“Ah, seems some damn fool left this open,” came the familiar voice of Percival. The Commander of the Blue Stripes. 

He froze, completely and utterly, hardly even daring to breathe. _He,_ of course, had left that open, in order to climb onto the roof of the window he was on in the first place, and if his commander closed and locked the window he would be left stranded up here— 

“Do you want to find another place?” asked another man’s voice. Mather. One of the captains of the Blue Stripes. 

He only barely stopped himself from groaning out loud. Great, he was in the shit now. 

“No, no, not at all. I’d rather sober up with some fresh air anyway,” Commander Percival replied, and Vernon released his breath in a very soft, slow exhale. 

They were just below him, barely a few feet away, and he drew his legs up to his chest, supporting himself on the roof carefully. They could not see him anyway unless they stuck their heads out and looked onto the roof, but it made him feel safer. He looked around, wondering if he could safely creep away to find some other fortuitously-open window to sneak back into. Eavesdropping on both of his superiors, however accidental, did not sit well with him at the moment, and knowing him it would be just his luck that something would happen to give his position away— 

“So, what do you think of Roche? He’s been doing well so far, hasn’t he?” 

Every thought of leaving abruptly fled his mind. Again he held his breath, knuckles gripping the goblet so hard that his fingers went numb. 

“You’re impressed,” Mather replied, his words careful as ever. “I’d say that’s praise-worthy alone.” 

“Speak for yourself. Hell, _you_ like him, and you don’t like _anyone.”_

“I…respect his drive. He’s incredibly focused.” 

A snort. Though the sound of it made it seem like he was doing it while drinking from a mug at the same time. “You’d call a dragon a lizard. Have you looked at the task board recently?” 

“Yes. His list is up there, as usual.” 

“And _just_ his list. Not requests, requisitions, overdue tasks that have been up there for weeks— ever since I put him up as ensign and told him that _that_ was his one and only duty as a junior officer, it’s been cleared. He cleared it within two days, and any extra requests or tasks are taken down almost as soon as they’re placed up. I’m finally getting my orders on time, without the King’s personal messenger having to chase me down and deliver it.” A long sigh. “I looked at the first few tasks he partitioned out to the rest of the Stripes, just to make sure they were being done properly and he wasn’t playing favorites, but then that was it. I don’t know how he makes them do it and how so well, and a part of me doesn’t want to know. Feels too much like meddling with magic.” 

“What do you plan to do with him?” Mather asked the very question Vernon had been thinking. 

“No idea,” Percival grumbled, almost under his breath. “Why couldn’t the King have plucked up that scoundrel a few years earlier? I would have picked him over Emnet for Lieutenant in a moment and not have this mess on my hands.” 

There was a long moment of silence. Vernon began to wonder if they had actually left and he simply did not hear, when the commander’s voice came again. “Let us go back, before someone notices our absence.” 

“Of course.” 

And this time he heard footsteps. Still, he stayed, still as a gargoyle atop the roof until he counted several minutes after the sounds had faded away. Only then did he feel safe enough to uncurl himself. 

He tipped his head back and drank the rest of his wine in four huge gulps, downing it all recklessly in a red, warm flood. 

* * *

His eyes cracked open again, amidst darkness and swirling dreams and voices of men years-gone, and stared blankly at the darkness above him. Shadows and lines of light played with his sight, a confusing mess scribbled by the hand of a madman that he could not make out in his exhaustion and muddled thoughts until it suddenly clicked in his mind that he was looking at firelight dancing along tree branches. 

Where was the tent? Why had the others not pitched it? 

Roche’s mind whirled in the first grasping notes of confusion and panic, trying to remember where they were and what they were doing here and why those idiots had not put up a ploughing shelter— 

_Because they were all dead._

His heart thudded in his chest in a single, unbearable beat that felt like a blow from inside of his own body, before then it started racing. Memory came back, Kaedwen, the Blue Stripes hanging from nooses in rows with their lips as blue as their uniforms, Loc Muinne, then the desperate fight on the border with Nilfgaard— 

_That was a failure._

He tried to sit up, and found himself frozen to the spot, his body unresponsive to the command of his mind. Then his side began to ache, pointedly reminding him of his injury, but what was even sharper than that was the jolt of alarm when he glanced at the fire and saw that he was alone. 

“Ves?” he demanded, his voice surprisingly quiet even to his own ears, though his chest felt as if it was ready to burst from the assault of his pain and his memories. 

He heard a sound from his other side and immediately turned his head, gritting his teeth at the effort, and saw her at last. She was scrambling to her feet, laid upon her own blanket that was, absurdly, placed between him and the trees. What the _hell_ was she doing there? Did she _want_ to get stepped on? 

“Roche!” he heard her gasping instead, and then she was right next to him, her eyes frantically searching his while her hands patted delicately—but insistently—on his body. “Thank the gods, are you alright? How are you feeling?” 

One of her hands rested on his forehead and the other barely grazed his bandages, and he grunted a little from the pain. It was a muddled, hot feeling, and his relief at Ves being _here_ had his head nearly swimming. “I am fine,” he said, swallowing thickly. “Damned hurts sometimes, but I’ll be fine.” 

She muttered something again, something thankful, and she looked to peer at the dressing on his side. “I’m going to get a look at it,” she said. “I need to see how it’s doing.” 

“Leave it,” he ordered, trying to calm his breathing. It was already hard to breathe and talk, and he hardly needed her hands touching there. “Messing with it all the time will just make it worse.” 

“We need to check on it!” she protested hotly. “What if it’s getting infected?” 

“It won’t get infected within a few hours,” he tried to explain patiently. It was hot and pulsing, whether he breathed or held his breath. “If you dressed it fine and cleaned it well, then it will be fine.” He saw her opening her mouth again to argue without a doubt, and his temper flared. “ _Leave it,_ Lieutenant.” 

She glared at him, though he could not see it. But he could feel her gaze and his mind could all too readily conjure for him the image of her large, incredible blue eyes glaring up at him, even more intense from the heat of her anger. Was that memory or just his mind playing tricks on him? 

His hand moved, far better than the sluggish waving about he had been doing before, but he still clumsily grasped the back of her hand before he managed to work his fingers around hers. 

All of her fear and anger, everything she was just barely keeping under the surface, he could feel in how tightly her hand gripped his own. As if she was afraid he would slip away the moment she left go. Roche gripped her back, just as tightly as he could make it, anchoring himself as well as her in a world that was dark, and terrible, and mad, and the ground was threatening to swallow the both of them up. 

For the moment, they were both completely, and utterly alone in the world. All they had was each other. 

“Ves,” he spoke again, through sheer strength of will placing himself in the present _._ Her hand on his helped, her strong grip that he mirrored in his own. “We can get it looked at _later,_ when we are out of here and out of danger. Right now we--“ he paused briefly, his mind already on a dozen different threads of thought at the various kinds of “danger” they could be in, and he forced himself to leave those thoughts alone for the moment. “Right now we need to think, and need to get out of here soon, understand?” 

Her hand squeezed his. “I-I understand, Roche,” she said, her voice steadier than it had been a moment ago, though he thought he sensed the tremor in it still. “You won’t pass out again on me, will you?” 

He mouth quirked into a wry smile. “I shall try my best not to.” 

There was a scoff from her, but she did not bite back at him. “I made you tea, like I offered, but by the time I turned back around you were out again.” 

“I will gladly have some now,” he said, taking his hand away at last and giving her a nod. 

That had always been as good as a spoken order to her. She turned to obey, stoking their fire while she was at it, and as the small flames began to lick at the new branches she was laying on them, he could see her face better. Her eyes were troubled, deeply, and her hands moving with a nervous energy as she grabbed their mugs, and some bread from that morning, and handed both to him. 

He thanked her, and for his part tried to focus on his careful breathing as he sat up, and to make sure he did not show any evidence of his wound troubling him in general. He was Vernon Roche, Commander of the Blue Stripes, and he was the one who needed to be calm in the face of adversity, and Ves would be calm as well. It was easier when he sipped his tea and warmth flooded his body, taking away the edge of his pain, even if it was sharp and bitter. “Willow?” he asked after a moment, blinking in surprise as his mind identified the taste. 

Ves nodded, a small smile twitching on her lips. “Found a tree a few days ago. Thought collecting the bark would be useful, and now here we are.” 

“You were always very clever, Lieutenant,” he said, giving her a nod. What would he do without her? Even when he thought that he had everything already thought out, Ves would show up with something that would surprise him and always end up being something they needed later. She had always been smart and had initiative, which had made her a perfect lieutenant. 

The willow would help with the pain, certainly, and he nibbled the bread while his mind buzzed with thoughts. He couldn’t hear anything no matter how much he strained his ears. No shouts or sounds of movements, none of the undergrowth in the forest being disturbed, absolutely nothing. Yet he could not imagine the area not swarming with Nilfgaardians, unless they were the luckiest duo this side of Mount Carbon and they had just managed to find a place where neither of the armies managed to even pass close to their hiding place. 

His heart thudded as he thought of the Temerians. Where had they all gone? No doubt every which way but most of them would at least try to head back to Vizima. But who was in charge of the army? He hadn’t seen John Natalis since that afternoon—it already felt like a century ago. He had gone to support the right, which was exactly where the cavalry had hit and—was he even still alive? He could be dead or captured or on the run like the rest of them at this point. Baron Kimbolt? His men held the center, and who knew how many of them had survived the bombardment of the mangonels. Their position had been the least enviable one. 

Who they really needed was Natalis, the army would rally behind him. But where was he? And where to head? They could not just stay here no matter how badly he was injured, the Black Ones would soon swarm the land. They had to retreat with the rest of the army, head to Vizima with the Nilfgaardians harassing them every step of the way now that there was no army to stop them. 

The mere idea of the banners of the Great Sun being within sight of the city’s walls set his gut churning, his mouth dry. Sipping the tea did not help, as his mind chased itself in endless circles, a hunter searching for the elusive track of a deer. There had to be _some_ way out of this, some way to beat them back, but he could not think of one, and the alternative was unthinkable. Just let them take Vizima and gut Temeria herself in one blow? 

“ _R_ _oche_.” 

Long habit and training kept him from starting, but his fingers did twitch for a moment as Ves’s voice dragged him out of his spiral of thoughts. It didn’t sound like the first time she had called his name. 

He looked to her, to her face which was cast half in light and half in shadow from the flames she had coaxed back to life, and met the one eye he could clearly see. Blue as her uniform, and piercing at him in worry. 

The blue reminded of something, of a snatch of thought half-remembered, that slipped between his fingers the second he believed he had a grasp on it. 

“What is it, Roche? I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past minute,” she said, her gaze locked on his. 

“I’m sorry, I was just thinking,” he replied, and drained half of his tea in a hot gulp. “We need to get to Vizima.” 

She frowned at that, ever so slightly. “The capital is days away, Roche, and that’s when you’re in a good condition to walk. Which you are _not_.” 

“It’s either that, or stay here and wait to be captured by the enemy. No doubt we would both make good prizes for them,” he replied, scowling fiercely at the very idea of it. “No, we are going, immediately. We, all of the Temerians, need to regroup at the capital, that’s where the Nilfgaardians are likely headed right now.” 

It made his hands grip his mug tightly and his blood burn. His lips wanted to curl back and snarl, like the hound that he was so often called behind his back when others thought that he couldn’t hear them. But Vernon knew that if there was a Nilfgaardian in front of him right this second he would have flung himself at them and torn their throat out, injury be damned. He would leave a trail of Nilfgaardian blood behind him to water Temeria’s soil as they made their way back to Vizima, and it was no better than what every single one of those whoresons _deserved._

To him it looked as if Ves wanted to argue. But while she was stubborn and thought more with her heart than her head at times, she still knew when he was right and made a good point. “We’re in Mahakam now,” she said after a moment, reluctant, but now the gears in her head were turning, working in the direction that her commander had steered them towards. “We know this region, Foltest sent us to pacify it years ago and we ran up and down these foothills hundreds of times.” 

Her face twitched at her words, all too abruptly, and Roche felt the same emotion shuddering deep inside of his heart, like a sliver of ice reaching out to chill his veins. 

_We,_ she had said. _We._ But it was not the _we_ of her and her commander, alone as they were now. It was the _we_ of all of them, how every single one of the Blue Stripes had walked these lands, left their marks and imprints on them, had breathed the same air, slept under the same trees—they might have even made camp in this precise spot for all he knew. 

It felt like a lifetime ago, another lifetime past Kaedwen, and the lifetime past the siege of the La Valettes. He had been forced to live several lifetimes all within the past few weeks, time crammed so tightly within that it was hard to comprehend just how brief it had all been. 

And yet he could recall every detail fresh to his mind, even when they had all been in Mahakam pacifying the dwarves, as if he was simply reminiscing on yesterday’s events. 

He remembered how Thirteen complained endlessly about his boots getting torn and soaked—it had been spring and the mountain rivers had swollen to three times their usual size from the melting snow, and more than once they had to avoid getting swept away by sudden floods. Silas eventually snapped and said if Thirteen kept bitching all day yet again he was going to throw him into the river. That spiraled into a fistfight which ended before Roche even had to intervene, and with both of their sour moods taken out on each other they were laughing over dinner again. 

He remembered how Finch spent diligent hours practicing the local bird calls, until he could mimic them perfectly. 

He remembered Shorty and Sheridan and Igo all sitting around the campfire, bickering quietly over various Temerian regiment names to give to the newest of Shorty’s brood. 

He remembered Fenn, perched in one of the trees as their lookout, always silent, always watching. The only time he ever truly talked was around his comrades, and his even rarer smiles— 

He broke off from those memories with a snap, like he had touched a hot pan and was jerking his hand away from the fire. But the burn remained. The pain was there. 

And Ves. She had been _in_ that tent when he had found her. When he had found all of them. He had only been there for a few minutes—how long had she been curled there, weeping and waiting and probably thinking that he was dead along with the rest of the Blue Stripes? 

He dug his nails into his palm, forcing his mind on the _here_ and _now_ , and looked up at Ves just as she looked at him. 

Neither of them said anything. Neither of them needed to. 

Roche tried to smirk, to try and brush it all off as a mere second of distraction, but his lips refused to move in that treacherous expression. And that made him angry because they still had to _go._ He held onto that thought with all of his willpower, like a dog refusing release a bone. He let it flood him, motivate him to move, to keep going, to just—do anything that was not _remembering._

“That’s more like it, Lieutenant,” he said at last, breaking the silence between them, but not the thing that lay in the silence between them. “Come, bring me my maps, we have enough light to chart a route through this blasted terrain.” 


End file.
